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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183787">Madness Crept In</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem'>reveling_in_mayhem</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety Attacks, Caretaker John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, M/M, Shaving, tubs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:20:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,252</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It had been building slowly since he forced himself out of bed that morning. Sitting in the back of his mind like some insidious toad, biding its time, waiting to strike at the worst possible moment. A weight on his chest, tightening and releasing as he forced his mind to other tasks, ignoring the shadow that danced on his nerves. The edges were beginning to fray, but still, he pursued any activity than the one where he had to look that beast in the face.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock has anxiety attacks.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Madness Crept In</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by Ben Platt's Ease My Mind</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been building slowly since he forced himself out of bed that morning. Sitting in the back of his mind like some insidious toad, biding its time, waiting to strike at the worst possible moment. A weight on his chest, tightening and releasing as he forced his mind to other tasks, ignoring the shadow that danced on his nerves. The edges were beginning to fray, but still, he pursued any activity than the one where he had to look that beast in the face. </p><p>The microscope had been switched on and off several times, slides placed and then removed. New slides were placed and quickly removed as he turned the machine off again. His violin was lifted and put down after a handful of notes that grated on his ears. Nails scratched at his skin, red stripes following in the wake of his fingers, but they brought no relief.</p><p>He yanked his coat and scarf off his hook, ignoring the empty hook beside it, and tossed them on before stalking out the front door, his long legs eating the pavement in determined strides. </p><p>Sherlock found himself in the park across from the flat, though he wasn’t sure if that was where he intended to go when he first set out. It didn’t matter. The destination made absolutely no difference. He intentionally slowed his pace, concentrating on the sound of his shoes against the gravel under his feet, the feel of the cold air as it blew across his face and pushed his hair across his forehead, the sight of birds flitting from tree to tree in search of shelter from the incoming weather.</p><p>It would likely snow by the evening. He could feel it sitting heavy in the air around him, in the tips of his cold fingers that he tapped insistently against each other. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he realized he was fidgeting, but the action continued in the depths of the warm material. </p><p>He focused on his breathing as he walked. Forced himself to take long breaths in, then slow breaths out. Then several quick breaths followed once more by the long and slow. His thoughts circled, but he refused to let his mind settle on any particular one. </p><p>When he was halfway through his circuit of the park, his phone pinged with a text message. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen, then sent back a quick reply. Long fingers tapped at the screen in a random staccato as he briefly considered texting John, but then he shook his head at himself and shoved his mobile back in his trouser pocket. </p><p>He lengthened his strides once again and made his way to the closest exit from the park. A cab pulled to a stop after he lifted his arm and he climbed in, barking out an address, and sat back, closing his eyes as the cabbie pulled out into the traffic. The swaying of the cab was nearly hypnotic, lulling him into that stage between sleep and wakefulness, that knife-edge of conscious thought and dreaming. There he saw John, frowning at him with a mix of concern and anger clear in his features, and Sherlock wanted to apologize for whatever had put that look on his face, but the words stuck in his throat. Choking on his apologies, his excuses, he struggled to breathe. The sudden stop of the cab threw Sherlock back into reality and he shoved the fare through the window to the cabbie and nearly threw himself out of the backseat.</p><p>Yellow police tape blocked the scene in front of him, but he strode over with his usual mask of confidence and indifference, ignoring Donovan where she stood off to the side. She narrowed her eyes at him, which he also ignored, and brought her device up to her mouth.</p><p>“Freak’s here,” she bit out to the voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie, voice dripping with disdain. Then, her voice raised enough for Sherlock to hear, “Where’s John? You piss him off?”</p><p>Sherlock breathed deeply, refusing to flinch or acknowledge the dig, and kept walking until he found Lestrade. </p><p>The silver-haired man was immersed in conversation with one of his techs, someone Sherlock didn’t know, and he sent the woman away when he spotted Sherlock. He gave him a friendly nod, his eyes scanning behind Sherlock for a short, blond doctor that wasn’t there.</p><p>“Thanks for coming, Sherlock,” he said, eyebrows raised in question. “Where’s John?”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head and shrugged in reply.</p><p>“Where’s the body?” he asked, refusing to answer his question.</p><p>Lestrade glanced at him with a quick, concerned look, but let the matter go. “This way,” he said, turning to walk down a small hallway and Sherlock followed him. </p><p>“The grandson came to deliver groceries and found her in the living room,” Lestrade informed him as they came into the room and the scene unfolded there. An elderly woman lay on the floor, a puddle of blood around her head and a wooden knitting needle protruding unseemly from her left eye socket. Sherlock frowned, walking up to the body, his eyes scanning both her and the immediate area surrounding her. </p><p>He crouched down, examining the trajectory of blood, the angle of the needle as it pierced her eye, the location of the other needle, the cat fur on her clothes. </p><p>“We’ve been questioning the grandson about anyone who might want to harm the woman. Perhaps an inheritance or a piece of jewelry. An argument, perhaps,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock barely managed to hold back his annoyed huff of breath and eye roll. </p><p>“No need. It was an accident,” he announced.</p><p>“What?” Lestrade asked.</p><p>Sherlock liked the Detective Inspector as a person, but today was not a day he could deal with idiots who ignored the evidence in front of their eyes. He rose as swiftly as a tidal wave and spun around, glaring at the man in front of him. </p><p>“It wasn’t murder, Lestrade. It was an accident. She was knitting when it happened. She rose from her chair, most likely to answer the door when her grandson knocked, and tripped over her cat while holding the needles,” he nearly snarled.</p><p>What a waste. He had had such high hopes that this would have been a suitable distraction, but it was just another disappointment. He turned away and made his way out of the flat without another word for the DI or any of the other idiots that were shuffling around the scene of the not-a-crime.</p><p>Instead of hailing another cab, he turned and walked down the pavement. His mobile pinged with a text in his pocket, but he didn’t bother to check it. It was at least an hour walk back to Baker Street from here and he settled into his stride. The flats, shops, restaurants, people, businesses he passed were blurred and non-consequential. His stomach roiled, twisting and coiling in on itself and he rode out a wave of nausea. </p><p>The shadow that had been following him doggedly since his day had begun took its opportunity to start clawing its fingers into his mind. He swallowed convulsively around the lump that formed in the back of his throat as his thoughts started to spiral out, but his mouth had gone dry. Chest tight, he kept his pace and tried to focus on the steady tread of his legs on the pavement. The cold air on his face. Blaring horns and angry shouts, crying babies in prams and the screech of tires as traffic slowed yet again. Anything to focus on but the shadow that lurked and prodded his defenses, searching for a way in, any weakness.</p><p>When he was within view of Baker Street, his phone had pinged with three other texts that he had ignored. He opened the door, noting that Mrs. Hudson was out, as he pulled off his scarf and coat to hang them on their hook. As he climbed the seventeen steps, focusing on each stair, he deliberately stepped on the squeaky fourth step and the creaky eleventh for no other reason than to hear the sound in the otherwise silent space. He pushed the door open to the empty flat, walked immediately to the kitchen, and filled the kettle for tea. </p><p>He lost himself for a few minutes in the mindless process of making tea, the automatic motions of pulling down a mug, putting in a teabag, pouring the boiling water over the leaves, waiting the four minutes for optimum steeping, tossing the used bag in the rubbish bin, the addition of milk and sugar, the stir of the spoon and the scrape of the metal against the ceramic mug. Grounding, predictable motions. </p><p>Once the tea was finished, he picked up the mug and took it with him into the living room. He placed it on the table before he turned to light a fire in the fireplace. Another predictable, methodical act that required no thought as he performed the accustomed motions. With the fire lit, he turned and climbed into his chair. Pulling his feet up,  his arms hugging his legs as he rested his chin on his knees, he stared into the fire, the tea already forgotten. </p><p>He watched the flames for a while, the play of shadow and light as the wood caught and burned, the logs shifting and dancing as they were consumed and turned to ash. His fingers had crept into his hair without his knowing, pulling and tugging at his curls as his eyes fell closed. The red light of the flames still danced behind his closed eyelids, but he no longer saw them. </p><p>
  <i>Freak.</i>
</p><p>He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands fisting in his hair, pulling at the scalp painfully.</p><p>
  <i>Liar.</i>
</p><p>The lump in his throat grew, blocking his oxygen as he tried to breathe.</p><p>
  <i>Psychopath.</i>
</p><p>Chest tight, he pressed the heels of his palms hard into his eyes, until he saw bursts of lights and color behind the closed lids. He threw his legs down off the chair and quickly kicked off his shoes then peeled off his socks, tossing them to the floor before standing and walking into his bedroom. </p><p>He pulled the shades on the windows closed, blocking out the early evening light. Crossing over to his bed, he laid down on the floor beside it, then threw his legs up into the air, letting his calves bounce against the edge of the mattress as he stared up at the ceiling. </p><p>Something was calming about the position, with his legs up and resting against the bed, his back on the solid ground beneath him. He was able to breathe easier for a moment. Something about being inverted like that forced him to center himself and he drew in a long, shaky breath, feeling his chest expand, before letting it out. He shifted, felt the pull of scars against his back. A physical reminder of just one of his many failures. </p><p>Not fast enough. Not clever enough. Standing on the edge of a building and jumping, surviving, but not living. Falling. Lying. Alive, but dead. </p><p>Stupid. Idiotic. Mistake after mistake after mistake. </p><p>The beast slithered upon him, plucking at the seams of his defenses and he watched in horror as they lost any semblance of structure. Of rational thought. Of sanity. The threads were snapping and he was flying loose, buffeted in nightmare winds, scrabbling for purchase with bloodied fingernails against his own mind. </p><p>Madness crept in, whispering its treacherous words, dripping poison into his ears. </p><p>
  <i>No one likes you. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>You’re a fake. A fraud. A fool.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You deserve to be alone. You should always be alone. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To be alone. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>That’s what you told John, all those years ago. Do you feel protected now? </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Look at the mess you’ve made. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>John won’t want anything to do with you. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Machine. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>John.</i>
</p><p>Heart beating wildly in his chest, he tried again to focus his breathing, to reassemble his wall of protectiveness, but his mind palace was in shambles around his feet. There was nothing he could do. Nothing to stop this. Hands clenched his hair again, yanking hard, tears falling hot and fast into his hair, his ears, as he lay on the floor. </p><p>Time had no meaning. His chest was on fire, his heart slamming against his ribs, his throat tight, his eyes burning as he pinched them closed, the tears leaking through regardless. He let out a scream, but there was no one to hear him, no one to care, and it did him no good, so he clutched his hair tighter, trying to center himself.</p><p>He couldn’t get a deep enough breath. No matter how hard he tried, the air simply wouldn’t fill his lungs. They were burning with the need for it and each inhalation was failing him, oxygen was failing him, and this was it, he was surely going to die, and he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die.</p><p>
  <i>I don’t want to die.</i>
</p><p>He wasn’t sure how much time passed. Minutes, hours, seconds, days. </p><p>His muscles were burning, his skin uncomfortably hot and too tight, but he felt none of it. He was adrift in his mind; anchorless; drowning. Madness held him, swaddled and unable to move, picking at his sanity and unraveling whatever was left. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. No one to save him. No one.</p><p>A fresh wave of searing tears overtook him and he accepted his fate, knowing there would be no relief, that it was time to let it happen. Logic had no ground to stand on here.</p><p>A warm presence appeared near his head. Strong, competent fingers touched his hands where they clutched his curls. Stoked the long fingers until they started to release their stronghold. Gentle fingers wiped at the remnants of tears, collecting and smearing them away. They went back to his fingers, coaxing them to further relax, and carefully pulling them away from his hair. </p><p>Blunt fingers worked tenderly over his scalp, soothing the places where he had yanked and pulled mercilessly. Wrapped curls carefully over short digits before letting them unfurl. Repeating the motion again, and again, and again. Comforting. Reassuring.</p><p>Subduing the beast and banishing the shadows.  </p><p>His heart slowed. The sweat on his body cooled. The lump in his throat and the tightness in his chest loosened. He breathed deeply. </p><p>Earl Grey. A mixture of colognes and perfumes. Cigar smoke. Gasoline. Cold air. Lemon verbena shampoo. </p><p>He released the breath and opened his eyes.</p><p>John looked down at him with a soft frown and his ocean blue eyes. “You should have called me,” he said gently. There was no accusation or anger. Just the simple statement. A reminder. <i>Call, and I will come.</i></p><p>“How are you here?” Sherlock asked, his eyes closing again as he breathed in all the scents of John.</p><p>“I got an earlier flight,” he quietly replied. “I texted you a few times, but you didn’t answer. I thought you might be working a case.”</p><p>They stayed there for several minutes, their quiet breathing and the muted traffic outside the windows the only sound in the room. </p><p>John continued his soothing motions through Sherlock’s curls, winding and unwinding, occasionally scratching at his scalp. Creating tethers for Sherlock to grab hold of, to pull the errant pieces back to center. </p><p>“I missed you,” John confided. Fingers stroking methodically.</p><p>John wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t ask what led to Sherlock laid out on the floor, tears streaming and strands of hair ripped out. He would listen when Sherlock was ready, but he would never ask. How could Sherlock say he woke to an empty flat for too many days? No John to talk to. To laugh with. To chase criminals with and tease Lestrade with and eat takeaway with.<br/>
John wouldn’t push. Not on this. He would simply wait. And if Sherlock never wanted to talk about it, John would let it go. </p><p>“I brought Chinese. It’s in the kitchen. Are you hungry?” he asked and wasn’t surprised when Sherlock shook his head. His stomach roiled at the thought of food. Twisted in knots that were slowly unwinding, his stomach rebelled at the mere thought of food at the moment.</p><p>Stroke. Curl. Uncurl. Scratch. Repeat. </p><p>“Do you want to take a bath?” </p><p>Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John again. At the familiar eyes, the doctorly and friendly concern in them. He felt the sticky sweat that had dried on his skin. The salt from his tears that lined his eyes. He nodded and John gave his hair another pet before he leveraged himself up off the floor by Sherlock’s head. </p><p>“I’ll get it ready for you,” he said and made his way into the bathroom. </p><p>Sherlock let his legs fall to the side and pulled himself up. He felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, as he stood up, but the moment passed. From inside the bathroom, he heard John turn the taps on, the groan of the pipes as the hot water worked its way from the furnace through the old building, and into the tub. </p><p>Sherlock stripped out of his clothes, tossing them over a chair by the bed, and slipped into his old blue silk robe. Lavender scented the air and Sherlock walked into the bathroom to see John close the lid of the bath oil that he had just poured into the water. The humidity in the room had already begun to steam up the mirrors. John looked up at him from where he sat on the edge of the tub, his eyes flickering over him thoughtfully. He stood up and gave Sherlock a small smile. He crossed out of the room after giving him a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, giving Sherlock his privacy. </p><p>He let the robe fall from his shoulders and pool on the floor before reaching over to turn the taps off and stepped carefully into the hot water. The temperature was perfect, almost too hot to handle, and he could feel the blush that crept over his skin as the heat of the water warmed him, his muscles relaxing, his nerves uncoiling. He let himself sink into the tub, his knees popping up out of the water and into the warm air of the little room as he let his shoulders be submerged. </p><p>The sound of bags and boxes being opened in the kitchen drifted down the hallway into the bathroom. The fridge door opened, then closed. The click of the kettle as it turned itself off. Soft thumps of two mugs set down on the tabletop. He let himself slip further under the hot water, over his clavicle, his neck. His eyes drifted closed as he breathed in the lavender-scented steam, the gentle lap of the water as he shifted his body, resettled. </p><p>In that moment, he drifted. The pieces of his sanity were still scattered, still not quite in his grasp, but the shadows had receded, their whispering murmurs harder to decipher, thus easier to ignore.</p><p>A rush of cooler air preceded John’s re-entrance into the room, followed by the snick of the door as the latch closed again, the soft clink of a mug placed down on the sink. A warm palm cupped his jaw, a thumb brushing over his cheekbone, before retreating again. Cupboard doors were opened and items removed as he continued to sit silently, eyes closed, drifting in body and mind.</p><p>“Sit up a bit,” came John’s soft tenor and Sherlock obliged without question. </p><p>His knees slipped back under the water as he sat up, the cooler air in the room causing his exposed skin to bubble in gooseflesh and producing an involuntary shiver. John murmured something unintelligible, his hand now brushing over his shoulder and down his arm until it touched the waterline and disappeared.</p><p>When it came back, it was with the feeling of shaving cream being smoothed over his cheeks, his chin, his jaw. The clean scent of it joined the lavender to fill the air around them, and Sherlock let his head tip back as he breathed in. </p><p>He hardly felt the first pull of the blade against his cheek. John was confident, precise, methodical in his shaving. Sherlock trusted him completely. He trusted John's surgeon hands; his soldier hands. The hands that could save a life with a scalpel or end it with a gun. </p><p>Each swipe of the blade was another tether for Sherlock to grab hold of and he started to pull himself back together with the help of John’s steady hands. </p><p>There was a time when Sherlock was terrified of John seeing him. Who he was. The messes he had made of his life. And oh, the messes he had made. </p><p>Drugs. Lying. Hiding. Moriarty. Jumping off a roof. Serbia. A damned drawn on mustache.</p><p>But John wasn’t phased by messes; by brokenness. Instead of abandoning Sherlock in the messes he created to deal with on his own, John stood and picked up the pieces. Helped Sherlock to pick up the pieces. Saw through all the facades that Sherlock threw up against the world to hide his insecurities, his anxieties. John saw, and didn’t judge, and didn’t turn away.</p><p>
  <i>You don’t deserve John.</i>
</p><p>A tether snapped. </p><p>
  <i>You don’t deserve his kindness.</i>
</p><p>One slipped through his fingers.</p><p>
  <i>You don’t deserve his friendship.</i>
</p><p>Another.</p><p>
  <i>You don’t deserve his forgiveness.</i>
</p><p>His heart slammed against his ribcage, his transport betraying him yet again.</p><p>
  <i>You don’t...</i>
</p><p>“Stop.” </p><p>John’s voice was a soft command. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes to look up at John, ears ringing from his elevated blood pressure, fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs, his chest and throat tight. John held his gaze, breathing slow, measured breaths, and didn’t look away until Sherlock began to subconsciously mimic those measured breaths and his heart slowed to a more reasonable pace.</p><p>When his breathing was once again calm, Sherlock let his eyes drift away from John’s steady gaze. John’s hand gently grasped his chin, turning his head so he could finish shaving the other side of Sherlock’s face. Calm, measured, confident swipes. His eyes fell closed again as he concentrated on the tactile feel of the blade raking over his skin.</p><p>It was grounding.</p><p>Warm water washed the remaining shaving cream away and John’s hands swept over the clean skin, ensuring there were no missed patches, and when he was satisfied with the job, he heard John stand and drain the water from the sink, then rinse the blades under the running water. </p><p>John’s presence surrounded him in the small bathroom, as heady and potent as the steam that swirled around them, as the warm water that held and caressed his skin. He was solid and real and he was an anchor for Sherlock as he remained adrift in the torrent of his betraying transport and the mind that he relied so heavily upon. </p><p>A warm palm on his shoulder had him opening his eyes and John offered him a smile and a cup of tea. Sherlock accepted them both, though he couldn’t return the smile. He took a sip of the tea, which had cooled almost too much, but it was sweet and perfectly brewed, and reminded him of easier days and weeks and he finished it before he was ready for it to be over. </p><p>John sat quietly beside him the entire time, as Sherlock drank his tea, and slowly pulled back all those loose tethers of his sanity. Pulled them back in and tied them down. Sherlock had learned that tying them down was only temporary, but it was the best that he could do. His mind palace was no prison, and he couldn’t control the anxieties that took over and rained devastation on him. He couldn’t pinpoint specific triggers, couldn’t decipher a pattern, and after his return from Serbia, his return to a John that had moved on, his mind had taken advantage of him and occasionally tore him from his logic and threw him into insanity.</p><p>But John came back.</p><p>John was here.</p><p>His breathing had steadied once again. His heart no longer crashed against his breastbone. His eyes no longer shed uncontrollable tears, though they still felt red and dry. </p><p>John carefully took the empty mug from his hand and placed it on the sink. He turned to look back at Sherlock, a question in his eyes, and Sherlock took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before he nodded.</p><p>
  <i>Yes, I’m okay, John. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Thank you, John.</i>
</p><p>John offered him another small smile and Sherlock found he was able to return that one.</p><p>John’s hand came up to cup his jaw, a thumb running over his freshly shaved cheek, then leaned in and pressed a warm, chaste kiss to his lips. </p><p>“I love you,” John whispered against his mouth, softly, a reminder and a promise. </p><p>Sherlock leaned into the hand and felt the brush of calluses that were fading from the surgeon’s hand; felt the smooth band of body-warmed gold that rested against his skin. Felt the weight of the gold that encircled his own finger. He sighed and turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against John’s palm in a kiss.</p><p>
  <i>I know.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I don’t know how.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I don’t understand how you can.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I’m broken. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>But I believe you.</i>
</p><p><i>I love you, John, </i>he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. </p><p>John knows.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always treasured. 💜</p></blockquote></div></div>
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